


Fishing for Compliments

by Illegible_Scribble



Series: 31 Days of Frodo/Sam, 2018 [17]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Flirting, Frodo is flirty, Hobbit Flirting Customs, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Playful Seduction, Pre-Quest, and Sam is too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 17:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16330343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: On the way to Buckland for a Midsummer Party, Frodo and Sam stop at the Golden Perch in Stock, and play at seducing one another for the evening.





	Fishing for Compliments

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [Kinktober's](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/112710) prompt for Day #17: Seduction.

Sam had been the one to suggest the upcoming evening, but that didn't mean he wasn't still nervous about it.

The carriage ride for the most part had been smooth, if a bit stuffy. For Midsummer's Day, Frodo had been invited to a party in Buckland, at Brandy Hall – his old home, before Bilbo had taken him in – and there were rumors swirling endlessly of fireworks, and splendor that would rival one of the festivals the Old Took had once thrown.

Frodo's acceptance of the invitation had marked that he was bringing Sam along – not for any specific purpose, he had written – but the _implication_ was for something ordinary, as any hired help might be for.

Sam, of course, knew that he was being brought along as a full-fledged guest; Frodo did not consider his lover 'hired help' any longer, once they'd begun sharing a bed, even if he was still paying Sam's salary.

The ride to Buckland was long and wearying, but Sam did appreciate the shifting landscapes passing idly by the window, and often he or Frodo would read aloud from the small treasure trove of literature Frodo had brought, or talk, or doze against one another. Today, they were on the last leg of the journey – and right on time, as the sun began to vanish over the horizon, they approached Stock.

They'd be spending the night there, before finishing the journey the following day. The week before the trip had begun, Sam had looked over their schedule, and made a shy proposition to Frodo, about this very evening, which would be in a tavern far from home.

The Golden Perch in Stock was renowned for having the best beer in the Eastfarthing, not to mention a fine bar and tavern accompanying a respectable set of rooms – and it was their lodging for the night.

The evening was already growing chill by the time the carriage drew up to the inn, but in spite of it Sam was grateful to be free of the carriage, and breathe fresh air. He'd never been in Stock before, and unlike the more rustic Hobbiton, it seemed all its streets were paved with cobblestone (many were still plain dirt back home), there were a good deal more houses (even several with at least two floors or more), and fewer smials. The Perch seemed a slight combination of both, however, being partially dug into a large hill, with a few of its wings (like the stables) being comparatively free-standing to the main, under-hill structure. “Brandy Hall is built a bit like this,” Frodo explained, as their ponies and carriage were taken to the stables, and their luggage brought in, “it began as one very large smial under-hill, but as the family grew, a great number of additional apartments were added. Over the years they've done landscaping to make it all look like one, natural hill, but some parts – last I saw it, anyway – were still hill-less.”

Sam nodded, looking thoughtfully at the building. He of course had lived in a smial all his life, and stayed in a handful of inns that weren't under-hills, but never one that strived to be both. He thought he liked it, or at the least agreed it was a noble aspiration.

After they went in, initially they spent only a few minutes in the tavern itself (where their appetites were taunted by the rich smells of roasting meat and that famous beer), until they went upstairs (a new and unsettling novelty to Sam) and settled in their room. For appearances, they'd requested one with two beds, but as each of them could fit three hobbits easily, they planned to share just one.

“Now, you are sure about this?” Frodo asked, after they'd washed off a bit of dust from the road.

At Frodo's prior requests, Sam did his best not to shrink like a violet and blush. “Y-yes; if you've still a mind for it, that is.”

Frodo's gaze wandered up and down Sam, before he stepped forward and adjusted his weskit to even the sides of his lapel. “Yes, I think so. We've needed little to prompt our falls into bed together, for rather a while now.” Anticipation glittered in his eyes. “In fact, I'm rather looking forward to this.”

Sam still doubted his own abilities to make much of an impression in a crowd – in Hobbiton or out of it – but it would be a lie to say he wasn't excited. “And you're not the only one.”

Frodo placed an affectionate touch to his cheek, before sliding away and to the door. “I'll see you in a few minutes, then?”

Sam nodded. “Aye; no more, likely less.”

For the moment, a cheeky smile was the last Sam saw of Frodo in private, before he disappeared behind the door, and his footsteps faded down the hall. Sam spent their short separation opening his trunk, and pulling out a few things for later in the night – namely a bottle of their favorite oil. He blushed as he set it on the nightstand, before perching on the edge of the bed and taking a few moments to think. He knew some of his mates played this sort of game fairly often with each other and their lasses, pretending for an evening to be strangers, and making a try of seducing the other under that pretense. It was all in good fun, Sam had heard (even for some of the more well-to-do hobbits, like a few of the Tooks), and though the past years had been exceptionally pleasant with Frodo – where they need only a kiss or a touch somewhere sensitive to start a tumble – Sam was eager for a challenge.

He didn't really think himself anything special – though Frodo told him often he was – especially not at flirting, but he did have the advantage of knowing Frodo's tastes, and what he genuinely appreciated in a compliment.

These considerations made the promised few minutes pass more quickly than Sam had guessed, looking down at his watch. He took a breath to brace himself, before making his own way down to the tavern.

It was rather loud – the din of voices besides, a band was playing on stage at the back – and a sea of hobbits greeted Sam's eyes as he disembarked the stairs. Many of them had the caramel-colored hair of the Brandybucks, with a few dark heads interspersed, and a handful of blondes. Some of them were still local – which could be seen with their familiarity to the tavern and their groups of friends – while others were more obviously travelers from other parts of the Shire, and idly Sam wondered if any of them were headed to the Midsummer Party, as he and Frodo were.

On the note of Frodo, Sam did not see him for a time. He stayed watchful for him, feeling giddy as he settled at a smaller, empty table near the back wall, and ordered a serving of fish and chips for himself, along with a half-pint of their most famous beer.

He was not so distracted in his search for Frodo that he missed the taste of the draft. It, indeed, was the finest beer he had ever tasted.

After the first half-pint and the fish and chips, Sam was feeling rather more confident about exploring the tavern properly. He visited first the back of it, where the fiddlers were playing – and to his surprise was caught and brought into a vigorous dance with a group of hobbits he presumed were Brandybuck relations (primarily for their caramel hair). One of them – the lass that had been his partner for several spins across the floor – wandered over to him after the song was over, and introduced herself as Pierra Puddifoot. “Fine feet you have to you,” she remarked, looking at Sam with a good deal of admiration.

The beer inhibited his ability to take the compliment all together calmly. As best he could estimate, it had been a fair number of years since anyone had last flirted with him quite like this. “W-well, thank'ee, Miss. You ain't half bad yourself.”

As far as Sam could recall, it just sort of happened that they settled at a table together – nearer the bar, now – and began talking. “Not from around here, I take it?” she asked, thoughtfully sipping her half-pint after a new round was brought to them.

“Nay – I'm guessing it's fair obvious, eh? Hobbiton born and raised, meself; just passing through on the way to Buckland.”

Her eyes widened, and she put down her drink. “You're not going to Saradoc Brandybuck's Midsummer Party, are you? Why, you've certainly got to be someone for that! How do you know him?”

“Oh, well,” Sam fumbled with his napkin, trying to make a map for himself of what course to take, here. This was unexpected, but fun, actually – even if finding Frodo was still his ultimate goal of the night.

They'd vowed that flirting with others was all well and good – encouraged, even, to enhance the challenge – but Sam felt a touch of concerning foresight as he realized at some point, he'd have to leave Pierra in favor of Frodo.

In the moment, however, he had no idea what he ought to say; whether to make himself seem more important than he was, be honest, or what. “Well, I'm being brought as a +1, you see, to the Bagginses.” he decided at last. “I were the favorite pupil, you might say, of old Mister Bilbo Baggins – of the dragon and Birthday Party fame – and I still am, a ehm, a- friend, of his nephew, Frodo Baggins.”

Pierra looked duly impressed – especially by one whose surname had been at first a veritable nothing to her. “I'd no idea the Bagginses thought so well of the Gamgees! Are you much close with the Boffins as well?”

To some of the Big Folk, it might have been odd for any person to flirt by tossing about their familial status to other, better-to-do families, but it wasn't unnatural for hobbits in the slightest. Often it was the main conversation in the initial stages of courtship, if the hobbits concerned weren't from the same village.

So it was Sam and Pierra's talk followed a very similar path, and he learned her mother was a Brandybuck – cousin of Saradoc himself – and her father the proprietor of the finest umbrella shop in all of Stock. She learned less of him – he was a touch more evasive with particular names or attributes to his own family, but made mention of his father holding great status as a gardener (he did not mention for only potatoes) in Hobbiton, and that his uncle's family and brothers were the finest ropers in the West Farthing. In spite of his lesser offering of details, he blushed to realize Pierra was beginning to think quite highly of him.

The conversation was momentarily disrupted by the appearance of someone Sam had for the moment, set in the back of his mind. “Pardon, but is this part of the table taken?” It was Frodo, his cheeks flushed from the half-empty wine glass in his hand – with not one, not two, but _three_ lasses flanking him, all looking as though they'd happily pounce on him, given half a chance.

Sam and Pierra welcomed them gladly, and their pedigree flirtation became circular, as the connection was made between Frodo and Sam, and the path of genealogical teasing (in an amorous way) branched into a spiderweb of directions.

Sam did his best to courteously meet the flirtations offered him, and between himself and Frodo, they got a relatively even amount of attention (though Sam felt in part the lasses that had flocked to Frodo were only offering him any mind, as they weren't certain they had much of a chance with Frodo). He was scarlet by the time he'd finished his second half-pint, and Frodo was a dazzling, tipsy pink, laughing as he emptied his wineglass. Sam felt a lovesick mooncalf all over again for him, to see the breadth of his wit and charisma when talking with anyone.

Feeling bold from his drink – when he noticed those of the table had run dry – Sam proposed to Frodo, “Care to order n' bring back the next round with me?”

Frodo raised an eyebrow, and a delicious smile of realization revealed the little gap between his front teeth. “Yes, yes I do.”

They bid their companions a (purportedly) brief farewell, making their way to the bar and settling on a pair of stools next to one another. “Another round for the table over there,” Frodo said to the barmaid, gesturing to the table they wouldn't be returning to, “and for us?” he raised an eyebrow again at Sam.

“Oh- um- your finest beer- half pint for each.” Sam looked at Frodo shyly, as the latter agreeably set down his wine glass. “You've not tried any, have you?”

Frodo shook his head, and turned around on his seat to lean back against the bar. “No,” he replied, crossing his legs, “I had been hoping someone might buy me some, before the night was over.”

“Well,” Sam was fighting down a nervous cough, “your hope's met a good end, then.”

Frodo had pulled his pipe from a pocket, but for some time made no move to light it, instead only resting its tip against his lips. “Yes, I think it has.” he said, before pulling it into his mouth with his tongue.

As discreetly as he could, Sam choked, and felt the heat from his face surge down between his legs. Somehow, he'd forgotten Frodo's ability to make a euphemism out of almost anything. “Yer wit's sharper than a dagger, it is.”

Frodo hummed appreciatively, for the compliment and the beer as it was served. “You must need some wit as well, to notice mine, I think.”

Sam's humble nature surged over him in moments. “N-nay, hardly at all. I just- had some fine teachers, is the whole of it.”

Frodo was very good at playing this game of strangers. “Teachers? Of what sort, if you don't mind my asking?”

This moment occurred to Sam as the perfect one to exercise the best of his flirting abilities. “Oh- mainly for me letters, you know. There were two – one as has gone away on a trip for a long while, but the other...” Sam sighed dreamily. “Why, his wit's one of them long, thin blades with that sharp point to it – a rapier – fierce and cutting, like. But he's wiser than an owl and sweeter than a lamb, paying mind to little old me – and he knows sommat awful much of Elves and all things fair. As he ought, being so fair hisself. Do you know, his eyes is sommat like crystal pools, being so blue, but with streaks of gold in 'em, like sunlight shining through water? Most beautiful hobbit ever there was, and it don't even start on the fairness of his skin, nor his ebony hair.”

Frodo chuckled into his mug, and he was blushing due to more than just inebriation. “Funny,” he said, trying not to giggle further, “I know someone much like that, and his dear pupil. Of the latter, he thinks his head stuck in the ground all the time, only filled with earth and flowers – they are there, of course, because he holds such a beautiful love of all things that grow. But there's much more besides; poetry, songs, and tales from all across the world. He knows them all by heart, but is much too shy to recite them.

“He's ever so much more clever and sweet than he'd ever admit, and handsomer, too. His hair shines like spun gold when touched by sunlight, and in the summer his skin is bronzed to perfection. Mentioning not, of course, his handsome, round belly, or his broad shoulders, or his large- ah, _mind_ , though I mentioned it before.”

Sam felt he was burning up, and not because it was nearly midsummer. He was abashed, of course, that Frodo described him so highly (and in public, though no one seemed to be paying them any mind), but nevertheless now getting very excited. “And, ehm, how well is it you're knowing him, then?”

“Oh,” Frodo set down his mug, and placed an uncounted amount on the bar for their tab, “I think I know him quite well, but I'd take any chance to know him better. How much of your blue-eyed friend's skin would you like to know more... intimately?”

“I'd like to know every inch of it,” Sam breathed, “with me mouth.”

Sam distinctly heard another snort of laughter, before the tavern became a blur the moment Frodo took his hand, and lead him back upstairs. Reality only became focused again, when he felt himself pressed up hard against their room's door, Frodo's mouth all over his.

By now their pretenses had vanished and they were – very nearly, anyway – plain Frodo and Sam again, who knew where to touch and lick and rub for the most pleasurable effect.

They were a stumbling tangle of tripping feet and groping hands as Sam soon found himself pinned against one of the posts of the bed, the both of them now disrobed and naked. Sweat was already glistening on Frodo's skin, and Sam felt his loins growing even hotter at the sight.

Frodo stepped away for a moment, glancing once to the oil on the nightstand, before looking Sam from head to toe with delight in his eyes. “It seems someone was a bit prepared for this?” Sam nodded mutely, wanting rather much to be touching Frodo again, while Frodo took a few steps farther away to retrieve the oil. “And how then would they like it? A mouth was mentioned, earlier.”

Sam whimpered and squirmed, itching to start touching himself as he looked over Frodo's naked body. His shaft was stiff and swollen red, looking plump and delicious, and there was nary an occasion Sam turned down the opportunity to take Frodo in his mouth. However, the bottle of oil gleamed so tantalizingly in Frodo's hands as he turned it slowly and thoughtfully, and Sam heard himself say, “Behind.”

There were any number of ways they could've arranged themselves, but the one Frodo had chosen, with a tug and a push of Sam's hips, was standing, with Sam braced against footboard of the bed. Sam was shaking as he bent over, securing a firm grasp of the richly carved wood in his hands, shifting and moaning as Frodo's oil-slickened fingers began to stroke and press inside him.

Soon enough he replaced his fingers with his shaft – firm and hot – filling Sam with such a perfect tightness, while one hand gripped his hip, and the other slipped around to his front, squeezing him tight and jerking up and down with each thrust in and out.

The bed creaked as they rocked together, struggling to quiet their moans and cries for the sake of other guests – Frodo had the advantage of being able to bite and suck at Sam's neck and shoulders (which he did, leaving a plethora of love bites in his wake), while Sam was left to muffle his exclamations into his arm. Or, as he did several times, abandon quiet for a handful deliciously liberating yells, which earned Frodo's ire in the form of particularly tight squeezes that made him moan even more.

Sam was the first to come, tightening around Frodo as the whole of him stiffened, and in several great pulses he spurted into Frodo's palm, his seed dripping through Frodo's fingers and down to patter onto the floor and his toes. From the pressure and wet delight of Sam's release, Frodo came moments after, planting his seed as deep inside Sam as he could reach.

They stood for some moments afterwards, shaking all over, Sam still bent over the foot of the bed, and realizing he couldn't hold his brace for much longer. Slowly, slowly, Frodo slid out and away, his seed-soaked hand disappearing to be licked clean, while his other procured a kerchief and neatly dried Sam's bottom and thighs, before patting his bum in approval to sit or lie down.

Sam staggered to the side of the bed, flopping on it face-first, moaning a final time with delighted exhaustion. Frodo was some moments behind him, tidying up the last of their foray, before clambering up beside Sam, and rearranging the blanket and pillows to accommodate him where he lay.

“Needn't do that,” Sam murmured clumsily, struggling to rise on love-soaked limbs into a more suitable position to lie on a bed.

“Easy,” Frodo soothed, nosing his ear, “we've had a very long day. You're fine where you are.” Sam's body gave in more quickly than his mind, and he flopped down again with a jolt to the bed. Frodo chuckled, pulling part of the comforter back and over them, while bringing a pillow down to their heads. “Was that all you hoped?” he asked, draping an arm over Sam's back and kissing his ear.

“Mmhm,” Sam replied, sleepy, “weren't as hard as I thought, in the end, and that's okay.”

“Do you mean I'm easy, Sam?”

“When you is as talking about me and me poems and golden hair, aye. You're a romantic, Frodo.”

“Don't go defaming me about that – it's only because I love you.”

The last clear thought Sam could offer, before he fell asleep, was, “And I love you the same.”


End file.
